


Were You Blinded By The Light?

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [13]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: . . . More Feels, Angst and Feels, Friendship/Love, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Mortality, Space Battles, Swearing, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: The Colterons finally come gunning for the Kepler, but they do not seek the death of its crew: the silent, flame-wrought smears of shattered Starfighters.They want prisoners. But of course that's not an option.Or: "Remember what I taught you? No matter what happens . . . you keep fighting."





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Did you find it hard to breathe?  
> Did you cry so much that you could barely see?  
> You're in the darkness all alone  
> And no one cares, there's no one there.  
> But did you see the flares up in the sky?  
> Were you blinded by the light?  
> Did you feel the smoke in your eyes?  
> Did you? Did you?  
> Did you see the sparks filled with hope?  
> You are not alone."  
> "Flares," by The Script.
> 
> Here we are, friends, albeit rather unexpectedly. I knew the series was winding itself down but wasn't sure quite how to end it, although I guess I've been trying to build up to something like this—or, at least, something like the Colterons showing up again. I didn't necessarily _expect_ this sort of ending (Gods, let alone want it), but that's the way it went. I . . . well. Well. When I'm over the feels enough to form a cogent sentence, perhaps I'll add more to this by way of explanation.
> 
> (Also, I still can't write space-battles and I'm still sorry.)
> 
> Anyway, I sure hope you enjoyed the trip. <3 I can't begin to thank you enough, you who've read through this as I've written it, or maybe you who've wandered through after the fact. Truly, _Phototropic_ wasn't meant to be this big a project, just little stories to keep me occupied in my free time, so I'm incredibly grateful for all of you. If you'd care to share your thoughts, I'd be much obliged, and truly—again—thank you.  <3

_Afon chokes against air run rancid, thick, the cold seeping into the very marrow of his bones. The strike has been precise: the_ Edifice _is dying but not_ dead _: they are not yet a silent scream of flame across an inky sky._

_Hayden's voice—Ethos' and Praxis' by turn—is riddled across their headset. All cogency is lost, there are no words, but words aren't needed now: the desperation in them carries anyway, and the Colterons can't stop that—not unless they figure out how to dismantle the encrypted channel—which, given everything, wouldn't surprise him in the slightest—_

_But it doesn't matter, does it? Really?_

_No._

_No, because it's Rawiri who soothes him, who whispers in that wonderfully-cadenced song of a voice that he is_ his _, that he is_ loved _, that they_ both _are, that this is but a step across a river, a plunge into the ocean's sway._

_"Helios! Selene!"_

_Task-names, dead-names: they don't matter now. Afon reaches up, switches the headsets to their channel only, listens to his Rawiri and bids his friends goodbye._

* * *

Shiloh's name was still sharp. Selene tasted it often and in the worst ways: in the showers, sometimes, when the dreams were still surreal and vivid: on the bridge when Keeler caught him and demanded to know what snared his attention: when he woke in the middle of the night and Helios, thank God, was too deep beneath the sway of sedatives to hear that name on his Navigator's lips that he never really meant to say—

But the Fighter couldn't miss the mornings when Selene was both amorous and on the verge of tears: he said nothing: he took it as his cue, then, to carefully cradle the smaller man and orchestrate the act such that Selene sank into it, lost himself therein: such that the gentleness was wholly on the part of his Fighter: such that—if either of them were to be honest—Helios might, if shallowly, be Shiloh to a ravaged, mourning mind.

Selene never called a name except his Afon's, though, in those acts of love (whatever his dreams and subconscious otherwise gave him), and the Fighter was glad that his gift was answered with another, with this mercy.

Two days since the list's distribution, since a presumed attack Command made no move to officially acknowledge beyond _that_ —

And then Hayden summoned them.

* * *

From the bridge, from the hangar, from PT, they converged: a swell of black- and white-clad flesh, all restless forms, all terse languages on coarsened tongues and all eyes flung wide, the pupils swallowing the irises. Helios found Selene, clinging to his hand; they sought the shadow of Praxis and followed him to where Ethos stood in wait, just at the front row, just before Keeler, Encke: the head Fighter/Navigator team were now their anchors far more than the CO.

Hayden cut a wide, wide swath through the lot of them without a word, silent, ghosting through their midst: most of the men were taller but none, not a one of them, had the CO's aura: he knew well that his authority rested on a delicate thread and he was damned determined to make sure the knots were sound until the end.

"The skirmish which occurred two days ago, as much I'm sure you've figured out, was an all-out assault by a squadron of some forty Colteron vessels. The warship under attack was of the same class as the _Kepler_ , so there's been some initial talk that perhaps it was an accident: however, as near as we can tell, the Colterons' offensive was deliberate.

"To further that point, Command has recently detected yet another squadron which is on a direct trajectory for us, and so I believe that this other attack was an attempt to intimidate us. These ships are after the _Kepler_ as much as they'd be gunning for you, men."

"Like the Anglers?" someone blurted—and the wrong, worst thing to say: the residual whispers and mutterings immediately died; one could have heard a pin drop.

Hayden's eyes were dark. "No. The Anglers wanted us all dead. The Colterons . . . made a point to cripple the vessel and what Starfighters they could without destroying them. Those on board—they had a choice."

"Prisoners?" Praxis wondered softly. "Or—?"

"Holy shit," Helios ground out. The Navigators shook their heads.

"This vessel was . . ."

 _So it happened that way, then,_ Selene conceded, shivering. _They wouldn't let themselves be taken prisoner. Any Fighter/Navigator or CO worth their salt would—_

". . . obliterated, but not by the enemy."

Hayden paused, surveyed them with austerity and resignation. "The squadron, so I'm told, will make contact with us within a standard day."

"Why the fuck did you wait to tell us!"

Cain? Of course Cain, but he had a point.

"Command put me under strict orders not to say a word to you until we knew for certain that the squadron was heading for us, was aiming for us, was making a move to strike. Besides, men, what else is there to do? Your scores are solid, you're all fit for duty, you've more than proven yourself capable as soldiers. As brothers. As sons."

He gestured towards the head Fighter/Navigator team. "Keeler, Encke, you're in charge of bolstering the _Kepler_ 's defenses. Obviously our greatest capabilities rest with you, with our Starfighters, but . . ."

 _There are too few of us,_ Helios groaned. _Even with us all, that's nothing to a whole squadron of 'Terons. Fuck._

"Go rest, men. Don't waste your energy on PT, on the bridge, on the VR sims. Just rest. Take this day and prepare yourselves."

"So you think you're gonna die?" Cain hissed, the sound as good as a shout. "Fuck that. _No_ —fuck y—"

"Cain!" Abel—surprisingly, Abel—a warning shout—but Hayden didn't seem to care.

"No," the CO shook his head. "No, until death comes I'd never tell you that. But seeing as we don't know when that squadron will arrive precisely, men, it seems stupid to exhaust yourselves on activities which, against the 'Terons, surely _will not_ save your lives. Do you understand?"

Silence.

Maybe?

But they didn't know.

And what else to do with the restlessness, adrenaline?

There'd be fights, for sure, be tempers running high, perhaps be someone consigned to madness because word like this could do that.

But, yes, they supposed they understood.

"I have nothing else for you. Be ready, men. Dismissed."

* * *

Praxis didn't speak, just threw his arms around Helios, around Selene, took hold of Ethos' hand and left. His absence was a void, a sharp-thing, more pronounced than the drills he'd missed of-late, worse even than his explosive, righteous anger after their first battle—after such sacrilege . . . And yet there was nothing to condemn.

The Navigator's hand was hot within Helios' own, but dry: the pulse beating frantically between them didn't seem to be for fear. The crowd thinned, let them pass without a struggle; the corridors before them were empty and forlorn and their footsteps had the harried echo of bones rattling.

For a moment, though, fear did take the Fighter, snagging at his mind until his vision blurred at the edges, black-and-red: the klaxon sirens could blare at any time and when they did— _Oh, fuck, this isn't like before—when we knew—when it was on_ our _time—_

"What do we do?" he choked out finally when the bunk swallowed him and he could shed the Fighter's mask. "Rawiri—"

"We don't talk."

The words were smooth, were soft, were song: when Helios stared at Selene with disbelief, his Navigator smiled gently.

"Afon, e ipo . . . hm . . . cariad, you'd say . . . those sirens and that squadron are coming closer every second, eh? And when those ships get here—that's it. I don't want to waste my last hours with you worrying, you see? Worrying over what we might not be able to change. I just . . ."

For the steady voice the slender form was shaking now. Helios stepped forward, swallowing an acrid lump that had crawled up his throat, pressing their bodies together until the shivering was shared. He felt his Navigator begin to pull at the Fighter's coat, one hand slipped up beneath his shirt while the other slid decidedly lower. But Helios' body didn't stir.

"Rawiri—fuck, I'm sorry—I can't—"

Selene was still for a moment that seemed more of a sliver of eternity: Helios could feel his labored breathing, feel him fighting for self-control, fighting disappointment and who-knew-what-else. Because it was selfish, in its way—Helios' denial—but he couldn't help it—fear, mortality, ran too thickly in his blood for him to forget, even for an hour, even underneath his Navigator's skilled, skilled hands.

_But he—_

Helios carefully disentangled himself, brought Selene's fingers to his lips, began to kiss them, smiling as he did so, determined to at least offer this—and perhaps it would be enough to shake him loose from the vice which longing for survival had cast around his flesh.

* * *

The looming threat of the sirens' call snared them in the end, moved them, gave their lovemaking an urgency which, somehow, led to each trying to outdo the other, to elicit greater pleasure than was given them.

* * *

Helios hunched at the edge of the bunk, toes clenched, wondering how the hell he'd let Selene kneel before him like this—and, God, not regretting it at all because the pleasure of it was enough to silence the beasts of memory. On the streets, he'd always hated this, hated it when men asked him for it in exchange for a credit or a scrap, wouldn't have wished it ever on Selene—it seemed too Goddamned _degrading_ —

But the Navigator had insisted—and the heat of his mouth, those gentle hands steadying his hips, the smaller man's low hum of contentment and obvious arousal pressed against his Fighter's calf were enough to leave Helios glassy-eyed and incoherent.

—no, he regretted nothing.

* * *

"Don't—tease me—ah!— _Afon_ —"

The Fighter smirked, obliged, replaced two fingers with a weeping, twitching bit of flesh and picked up an easy cadence, groaning—steady, though—until his Rawiri fumbled blindly for his hand, until the Navigator's back arched and the words of love moaned between two languages gave way to a cry which was, in its way, far more eloquent and pleasing.

* * *

Helios blushed, still trembling at the precipice but returned, somewhat, to himself: losing himself _entirely_ had led to this: to Selene's pausing thoughtfully—an admirable show of restraint—and staring down at him with dark, dark eyes whose gleaming had half as much to do with bemusement as it did with lust.

What the Fighter had choked out, amidst general sweet-nothings, was, "Fuck me."

And he'd never, not once, said that—not to his Rawiri.

Now the Navigator smiled, sadly—sadly because he knew those words had last been spoken by his Afon to some paying man—and pressed his fingertips against the Fighter's lips. His body shuddered, hips caught into a gentle rhythm once again: a slow, slow pace that nearly undid the both of them.

"That," Rawiri whispered, " _that_ I will not do. But I will love you . . ."

Helios reached up, ran his hands through ombre hair, wondered what in the hell he'd done to be so blessed by this good man.

* * *

"Does this count as exhausting ourselves, Afon?"

The Navigator's hands were cool as they stroked him, as his hips rocked forward into the familiar rhythms and the knowing touch. A brief interim, not so much half-sleep as a guarded lethargy, before the dance began again—and yet once more—because, as it turned out, their bodies realized more than their minds the gravity of their few remaining hours.

"Fuck no—and Cain was right—fuck Hayden, too. I don't really care."

A raw grin from the Fighter then, not only lust- and life-affirming but affirming, too, that they might fly the _Edifice_ into battle on the CO's orders but it would never really be fought for him, or even for the Alliance—no—but for their friends, their comrades—Rawiri for his mothers—and too, and too, for themselves.

* * *

As Hayden predicted, a full day after the briefing, finally the sirens screamed, the _Kepler_ 's runner-lights flaring white for just a moment and then to red: the halls were thrust to semi-darkness and Selene whispered quietly to Afon that there was a reason for this—it wasn't to spook them—not at all—but if the _Kepler_ was indeed bracing for an attack, it took far less power to have such lights guide them to the hangar-bay than full halogenic-spread-and-glory.

They'd bathed and been in uniform for a while now: if reluctance pulled at their flesh, their minds inserted a degree of pragmatism and reason eventually won out. Now they stood in the shadow of the _Edifice_ , two stones in a sea of bodies which curved past them, en route to their own Starfighters—or else it was the techs who, under Encke and Keeler's directions, were also born children of the Alliance, were the _Kepler_ 's last defense should the Starfighters fail to keep the 'Terons back.

They stood on tiptoe, seeking Praxis, Ethos, wanting to say much and finding that no words were there: to shake the Fighter's hand, to pull that plucky Navigator close—

But there wasn't time—

" _Edifice_! Get moving!"

"Encke—"

The head Fighter's name was a whisper on Helios' lips before the taller man jerked his head sharply up; Selene had halfway scaled the handholds and was waiting.

"Encke, sir, thank you—"

A broad, broad hand slapped itself across his shoulder. "I'm just Encke, kid. Now get up there and give them hell."

* * *

Encke watched them, their shadows low and long in the hangar-lights, dimmed until the stars beyond waxed bright. Helios slid up the handholds easily, paused a moment before dropping into the Fighter's niche, reached out across the hull to catch his Navigator's hand, pulling him along the wing—he almost staggered—but there was the promise, always, that the Fighter wouldn't let him fall.

Encke watched them as they took one moment more, one more precious second over which he couldn't really chew them out: unselfishly and needfully and movingly they kissed—if it hadn't been for where they were—or maybe it was _because_ of where they were— He loved Keeler but had never—not like that—

Encke watched them as Selene held them steady, as he pressed their noses together and words were whispered that he couldn't hear, that weren't for his ears anyway.

He watched them part, and it was almost sickening. He shouldn't watch. He should turn and find his Keeler, turn and make sure the techs were in place, turn and make sure that the _Kepler_ had all defensive systems online, that they were manned, that they were as ready as they could be.

But.

But he looked at Selene and Helios and remembered the day when they'd first met, when Helios was just a bright-eyed little Fighter who'd got lost on the way to his bunk: who'd saved the data-spike which in turn had saved the _Kepler_ : who'd almost been killed over a scrap over his Navigator (as if that sweet, good man could possibly love anyone but him): who'd healed and come back and faced the teeth of war and, yes, almost been broken by that, too: who'd crawled from the simulator screaming about what wasn't real: but now, but now, who showed no fear, just raw love and grim determination—

_Give them hell._

A tossaway phrase, one worn too thin over centuries of use.

He wished he'd said something more, something worthy of Keeler's hopes and fears and rekindled trust in them.

_When this is over, you come back to us. Come home._

* * *

There was no time to check the radars—the squadron came up _fast_ —the Starfighters had been instructed to lure them away from the warship and obliterate them but there didn't seem much chance of that: the ten Alliance ships were soon wrapped up in what seemed more like a swarm. A squadron of the Colterons was legion.

Selene kept them dancing, turning in wide and dizzying spirals: the Colterons, true to Hayden's word, didn't seem to be firing to kill—but the alternative—to wound and capture—which, implicitly, was worse.

Helios' hands were quick, were light, as if the _Edifice_ 's weapons-systems were extensions of his own living flesh and reflexes: he needn't think before his fingers twitched. But these pilots of the 'Terons were at the very least well-trained: if they weren't fucking _Colterons_ they'd have been courageous. They proved insufferably hard to hit, and what damage was done seemed minimal. Popped explosions snared their eyes but never came that rush, that seen-but-unfelt-heat, the silent death.

The channel across the Starfighters was rife with static, with competing signals, with curses and terse orders: Helios listened quietly and took his shots; Selene, without a word, obeyed Hayden's commands; their reputation, last that it might be, wouldn't brand them _rogue_.

* * *

Keeler's voice cut across the lot of them, a swansong across the stars: the _Kepler_ had sustained its share of hits but so far, so far it held—

If the _Kepler_ fell, so did them all.

* * *

" _Edifice_!"

Ethos was a welcome voice, a solitary cry. Neither Helios nor Selene had noticed in the strange and savage fray that the radios were still: fighting an enemy who was at once skilled and determined _not_ to kill you proved a reviling task. Their hours in the VR sims had done them good—they'd evaded damage, capture, both—but something in the linguist's voice—

Only then did they realize that they were all alone.

All alone but for the Colterons still swarming them.

"What the fuck?" Helios managed to choke out. "Selene—"

"They—I don't—"

The Navigator's hands flew across the console, desperate not for desperation's own instinctive sake but for what had been done. "Af—ngh—Helios—they've—this must be interference—my radar shows we're still close to everyone—"

"But we're—"

" _Edifice_ —Selene—where are you?"

"Are you okay?" Selene demanded. "Ethos!"

"Fine—we're fine—but there's a knot of them around someone—we can't—everyone's tied up, there's nothing we can do—it's—no, just—where—"

"Where the fuck _are_ you?" Praxis, then, raw-throated, steady-voiced, cutting to the quick of things and leaving Helios drenched in sudden, chilling sweat.

He swallowed. "Praxis, I think we're in that knot."

"You're—"

"They—interfered with our—" Selene's breath came hard and fast. " _Tiberius_ , my instruments aren't—I can't—none of this makes sense. It isn't right."

"Were you hit?" Ethos seemed to choke against the words.

"Not—she jumped a bit and fought me for a second but we're in the—in the middle of _ten_ of them and I just thought—"

But he'd been wrong, been wrong: and they'd been played for all they were worth.

* * *

" **Not-cowardsss . . .** "

The sound tore against their ears, drowned out Ethos, Praxis—Keeler—Hayden—whoever else was screaming for them, too.

The words didn't matter, nor who spoke them (though of course it was the Colterons)—

Helios sat for a moment, blinking, feeling blood trickle from his ears: his eyes hurt, as if he'd stared into the sun or unfiltered light: this wasn't what he'd felt on the _Derelict_ , but it was enough to know that something had been done, was _wrong_ , was more than even his fucking brilliant Navigator could ever hope to fix, let alone out here.

"What did they do to us?" he shouted. "Rawiri—"

"Don't know—"

The _Edifice_ pitched, rolled, was caught again and again in the strangest currents, eddies that he couldn't see. _What the fuck are those even_ from _—?_

". . . low-grade electromagnetic bursts," someone was saying. Ethos. Ethos from so far away . . .

The current of the ten-set seemed to carry them: Helios heard Selene—his Rawiri—give a cry of rage: the _Edifice_ , for once, did not yield to him, did not respond: the Starfighter was no longer really theirs—

* * *

"What the hell!" Keeler stared at the long-distance radar scans, shivering. Like cutting a member from a herd, the Colterons had slipped the _Edifice_ away, had struck it again and again with some weapon undetectable, thus far unknown . . . an electromagnetic disruptor of some kind that must have scrambled the _Edifice_ 's computers—Selene would never let them be so caught—

The Starfighters closer to the _Kepler_ were holding the Colterons back well: unlike the overwhelmed _Edifice_ , the _Reliant_ , the _Tiberius_ , were scoring kills, and even a crippled warship was a formidable foe: the _Kepler_ 's own defenses left a spray of light and scrap across the sky. The men would be home soon, it seemed—

"What do we do about—"

"I don't know." Keeler set his teeth, glanced at Encke. "Look, if we send anyone after them—and _Tiberius_ would go—they'll just fall victim to those weapons too. You see? They'd be caught and we'd be down two ships and—if the Colterons want prisoners, who knows for what—we can't, we _can't_ take that risk, Encke—Ethos and Selene know far too much that could be useful—"

"Not this again," the head Fighter whispered. "Shit. Not this."

* * *

The _Edifice_ kicked: Selene cried out again—but in rage or pain the Fighter didn't know—

"Thought they were just disabling our—" Helios choked, couldn't finish, pressed his hands together because the weapons-throttle _burned_ and filled his nostrils with an acrid stench. _Oh shit, oh shit . . ._

"Eh—me too—"

"Rawiri—"

"I'm fine—"

"But we—"

"Afon, I can't—I don't have control—not over the systems—"

* * *

_They are silent for a few moments, each wondering if this is the rubicon, the point of no return, the moment when the men of the other Alliance Starfighters (_ Shiloh _!) must have realized that fighting wasn't necessarily winning, not in this case, not when the alternative was capture, torture, was—who knew—_

And they _will_ get us now. They _have_ us.

_Because they wouldn't, couldn't rely on anyone to get to them, rescue them, save them. They'd been there before and God forbid if Praxis or Ethos was captured, too— But otherwise, what are they except dead in space, caught in the current of the Colterons' ten-set?_

_"Afon." Rawiri, quietly: the channel is still open but he doesn't seem to care. "Afon, I don't have control over guidance but I can manually reroute some power into our weapons cache . . ."_

_"Remember what Encke told us?"_

_"Give them hell. We can do that, eh?"_

* * *

 " _Keeler, Goddamnit, let us—"_

 _"_ Tiberius _, so help me. Your orders are to clean up the 'Terons and stay_ here. _The_ Kepler _needs you._ We _need you. Especially now—"_

 _"Don't you fucking say that—_ they _need us, too—they're still close enough that we could—"_

_"Praxis." Ethos, softly, softly, slips between his Fighter's snarl and Keeler's terse, hopeless retort. "Praxis, those ten ships of theirs are . . . special. You understand? They have weapons these ships don't, weapons we've never seen before. If we go after them, the same thing would happen to us, too. They wouldn't want that, Praxis. Helios, Selene wouldn't want us to—to be captured or—"_

_"So we just let them be caught, be—be fucking tortured—"_

_"They won't, Praxis." Encke then, grimly. "They won't let themselves be caught."_

_And Ethos glances at his instruments, says nothing: he thinks of what Selene must be doing now, for he knows just as well how to manually rig the weapons cache so that it overloads and the power surge detonates the lot of it—at those quarters, it would be enough to take out all ten of the 'Terons' altered ships—to spare the rest of them that fate—_

_"Fuck," Praxis is whispering, again, again. For his talk, so often, about being prepared to die—not this—he'd never intended this—never expected, really, to lose his best friends—"Fuck._ Edifice _—_

" _Helios! Selene!"_

_Static-strewn silence and no more._

_The weight if of it hits them, that never again will Helios' coarse banter or Selene's lilting song be their answer: Praxis gives a ravaged yell and Ethos sets his teeth: the_ Tiberius _hurtles recklessly through the remaining 'Terons nearest to the_ Kepler _—only ten left now, a savage irony—and together—as a single hurtling, avenging bead of metal, a spark of life in lifelessness—they set the sky alight._

* * *

_Afon chokes against air run rancid, thick, the cold seeping into the very marrow of his bones . . ._

_He suspects the 'Terons have damaged life support. Damaged it to incapacitate them, not to kill, and a decent job they've done of it: it hurts to breathe: his flightsuit flashes cold against his flesh, so-much-so that it's_ heat _, that it's the same as the burning, warping plastic of the weapons-throttle, a brand against his questing hands. A Fighter until the end: he grits his teeth against the pain and tries, again, again, to pull the trigger, to find_ some way _to get them out of this, to send the ten 'Terons to hell and save his brilliant Rawiri and—_

 _But it's no good: as the navigation console's locked up, useless, no more are the_ Edifice _'s weapons his . . ._

* * *

_Half-choked sobs catch his Navigator's ears. Rawiri, precariously slipped from his harness and huddled by the console's hub—praying he has long enough before the Colterons do who-knows-what-else—shakes his head._

_"Afon. Afon, stop. E ipo . . ."_

_He works a moment more in silence, silence, while Afon's breathing slows. At least he's dropped the superheated weapons-throttle, then—_

_"Listen to me."_

_He's thought of his mothers, of Whaea in particular, of the ocean and the rabbit and the_ Swift _and Shiloh, sweet Shiloh, and everything worth remembering, even that which he'd never wish on anyone—until the only room that's left is for his Fighter, and well enough it should be._

_"I will always love you, Afon, I have since I first saw you. I—if we had our whole lives . . . but I'd have traded mine again for this—for these months with you—and even this—"_

_Warily he crawls from the_ Edifice _'s belly, slips into the Fighter's niche, finds his Afon waiting, arms outheld—each knows there's safe haven in the other—even against death—_

 _They tap the headsets off: the_ Edifice _'s labored thrumming and the warning whine of power diverted to the weapons-cache make for a fitting final song. But it is quiet enough, still, that they don't need the radio: that words dropped from shaking lips can reach resigned, eager ears._

_"Ti yw fy nghariad," Afon whispers hoarsely, stroking his Navigator's cheek. "You are my love, Rawiri."_

_"Afon, e taku ipo . . . my dearest, my . . ." Rawiri can't finish the words, can't do anything except kiss his Fighter, trying in the labored cadence of their breathing to drown out the_ Edifice _'s keening death-cry. They don't have long at all to wait._

_Afon's arms are strong, are sure: his heart is bold: his breath is the sway of the ocean and Rawiri wonders for a moment if all the things Whaea told him as a child are true, are true, even out here, amidst the stars, so far from home. His eyes are dry: he does not tremble now: with his Afon, he is not afraid of death . . ._

_Rawiri's form anchors him: the cool, cool lips against his own leave Afon remembering the sacred euphoria he used to feel, of all things, during an Orthodox Mass, when he was small, when his head and heart still had space enough for such a faith. Divinity turned tangible, turned bread in the belly and wine on the tongue—Rawiri is something like that, too—his weight, his warmth, his lips and tongue slowly, slowly, pulling the both of them apart—_

_Their eyes are open, hands roaming over the memories of familiar bodies which are all but lost to flightsuits now. Their breath comes hard, comes fast, tearing at their lungs because it's too damn cold and it hurts, it hurts, but it doesn't matter, really—no—_

_And then, as so many times before, as at the climax of so many acts of love, or moments of great loss, or fear—tangled in their kiss, their yearning, their farewell—they both, they both shudder and cry out and see nothing more than_ light.


End file.
